


bite size assortment

by lzrd



Category: Hotline Miami (Video Games)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Multi, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzrd/pseuds/lzrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of ficlets from requests sent to me on tumblr</p><p>ships and themes in chapter titles</p><p>[MOST RECENT UPDATE: beardjacket roadtrip au]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. [beardjacket] hurt/comfort post casualties

**Author's Note:**

> gerty-3000 asked "BEARD COMFORTING JACKET AT THE HOSPITAL AFTER DANIELS AND BARNES GET THEIR SHIT FUCKING WRECKED AND JACKET NEARLY DIES OF SHRAPNEL WOUNDS"

For the half an hour he’d been awake, slowly rising into the waking world like surfacing from a pool, Jacket had seen Beard move from his post at the corner of his bed twice.

Once, he shuffled out of the way sheepishly for a nurse to get by to check his IV. They exchanged a couple of polite words and he returned to watching over him as she swept out of the room.

The second time was when the Colonel stepped into the doorway and beckoned him out into the hall for what seemed like a very tense few minutes. He was grateful it wasn’t him out there, that was for sure, glad of the pain medication for turning his maiming into a convenient and only mildly discomforting get out of responsibility free card.

He felt guilty for thinking that though when he saw the tight furl of his brow as he reentered the room. Beard returned to his side again, which might have been poetic were it not for the suspicious absence of his usual affected nonchalance in situations like this. There was more.

“Barnes, and Daniels, they’re,” he seemed to be fighting against some pretty severe dry mouth, and Jacket motioned to the pitcher of water on the table with his less damaged arm. he could already see where this was going, the familiar dread having already thoroughly diffused through him.

Beard snagged some water, and at Jacket’s feeble but insistent gesturing, sat at the foot of his hospital bed. Carefully avoiding jostling anything, he settled down, hunched over his glass as he said what Jacket had been thinking. “Barnes and Daniels are dead.” Jacket didn’t cry, and neither did Beard. The space between them seemed too wide, a chasm when it shouldn’t be an inch. The sunlight hit the glass, sending wavy refractions of light across the hollow of his throat. Jacket shoved thoughts of how delicate the skin was there out of his head, couldn’t shake the afterimage of delicate draining puncture marks.

He was grateful when Beard started to speak again. “They were great men, no, the best men, their sacrifice won’t go unnoticed. I’ll be contacting their families this afternoon.” There was a fire in his eyes, the kind of tunnel vision a troubleshooter like him got when there was something new for him to beat his brain against. Jacket had no doubts that every resource available would be going to this tribute to their memory. There were a lot of resources, now that the war was over. With the two of them surviving, the army would be keen to sweep the nature of the mission and the previous lack of support under the rug. Beard was still going on, running through every step he’d be taking to ensure their friends would be remembered for the heroes they were. It all started to run together, a comforting drone formed from laws and budget allotments, compensation and commiseration. It was his nature, to see a problem and work to fix it, with a level of earnest emotional involvement that was unwise, bordering on unhealthy. Beard dropped a hand to rub his ankle, one of the only unscathed parts of his body.

“Looking back at this…. this whole thing. It’s been wild. Too much, too often, and we’ve lost too many good people. But you and me, man. We’re alive. And we’re gonna stay that way, you hear me?” He squeezed his ankle, as gentle as the bittersweet smile on his face. “Gonna live it up for those who can’t, just you wait.”


	2. [tonyash, coreyalex] fans hang out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "something nice abt HM Like some nice fans hangout time or pardo and evan broing it up?"

  
They’re all pretty buzzed by the time they all pour out into the street, bumping into each other with the casual disregard for personal space that hits them whenever they’re all out like this, hazy and half asleep after a long night out. Alex and Ash are bickering without heat, as usual, Corey backing her girlfriend up on principle. Tony prefers a more hands-off approach, with his hand slipped into Ash’s back pocket, steering him away from obstacles in the street and trying to explain some vague plot point of a movie he only half paid attention to. Mark chuckles, unintentionally herding everyone in the right direction by way of his sheer size, and usual position at the back of the group.  
  
He’s only half paying attention, trying to make sure he doesn’t mow anybody over. They’re all talking loudly, and the night air cuts right through the fog surrounding them, pulling from a reserve of energy inside all of them. Everyone’s starting to get rowdy again, Tony almost smacking Mark in the face as he begins to gesture wildly about what he’s describing –an explosion? A sex scene? It’s all the same to Tony anyway– and the twins have almost perked back up enough to settle it with physical violence when Corey speaks up.  
  
“There isn’t any food back at headquarters” She uses the cheesy nickname for their place with total certainty and a grim inflection, and Mark wonders how she manages to make it sound like the worst news anyone could give.  
  
“Shit.” Tony’s always the first to complain in situations like this.  
  
“I guess we gotta stop at a store before we go back then huh?” Mark begins to nudge everyone to cross the street towards the mini mart on the corner. For anyone else, it’d be tricky, but he’s got years of getting the group to go where he needs them to, even with the weak slap fight kicking up between the twins. He knows better than to get between that by now, drawing an arm around Corey at the far edge of the group to use as a buffer to push the squad across the street at the light change.

 

* * *

  
The light from inside the store is blinding as they all step inside the store. Corey ducks under his arm to make a beeline for the coolers, pulling Alex after her. Tony peels off towards the chips. Ash and Mark look knowingly at each other as they each grab a basket and begin to make an actual plan for something resembling a shopping list.  
  
“Do you think Tony would eat a salad?” Mark asks.  
  
“Not unless there was a steak under it,” Ash says.  
  


 

* * *

  
  


Corey and Alex, having chosen drink duty, are in the process of loading up with a sensible selection of pop and booze. Corey stacks an even amount of both into Alex’s much beefier arms, until her hold is overfull with bottles of every color, and she’s tottering dangerously to keep her balance.  
  
“Do you need help carrying those?” Corey hides her grin behind a hand.  
  
“Nah, I got it, don’t worry babe.”  
  
Corey stands on tiptoe to kiss her cheek over all the bottles, stifling a giggle when Alex nearly drops everything trying to lean closer.  
  


 

* * *

  
  


They all group up around Ash and Mark, dumping their choices into the cart. Tony has assembled a truly expansive spread of snack food, and combined with the Ash and Mark’s more sensible choices, they have enough food to last well into the next week.  
  
For a minute Mark takes stock, making note of their choices, and making sure everyone’s there.  
  
“You ready?” In unison everyone’s hoods go up, except for Tony, who’s only wearing a thin tee. He leans into Ash, flashing a grin at him. They all put a hand on the cart, Corey hopping onto the ledge at the front.  
  
Mark grips the handlebar, and at the count of three mumbled under Alex’s breath, takes off running, everyone sprinting with him out the door and into the night, ill-gotten gains bouncing in the cart as they dash away.  
  
Everybody on the on the street keeps minding their business as five 20-somethings hoot and holler their way home, taking turns riding on the cart. The only two to look up are a couple of men standing outside a bar.  
  


 

* * *

  
  


“Kids these days,” Pardo grumbles and makes to follow them.  
  
“C'mon man, it’s your night off. Do you really wanna chase after some kids when there’s a beer inside with your name on it?” Evan says.  
  
“Guess not,” he responds, allowing Evan to lead him back inside.


	3. [beardjacket] wartime angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "What do you think beard said to jacket when he almost died during the war (or other general conflict era angst) thanks<3"
> 
> i went w/ general angst, it's a prequel to [Forged From A Corrosion-Resistant Metal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6641218)  
> 

It’s been two days since they’ve seen each other last, positioned at opposite ends of the island for some reason or another. He hasn’t slept since they parted ways, Beard and him glancing at each other over their shoulders. It’s really started to get to him, slogging through the ass end of the jungle as the edges of his vision throbs in wavy patterns he’s too well trained to be distracted by.

Daniels, his partner on this mission, hasn’t given him any space– not for lack of trying, but they can’t afford to make mistakes now so they’re more or less attached at the hip for the time being. They get along well, both stoic and untalkative more often than not, and usually it’s an uncomplicated silence between them, but this past couple of days has been off without their more talkative counterparts.

Jacket had thought it too old fashioned to ask Beard for something of his to keep close and he regrets it now, worrying the edge of his shirt between his fingers for lack of something better to hold on to. He was rarely one for overthinking things, always in the moment and ready to take things at face value, for his own wellbeing. Heavy introspection was Beard’s thing.

It was almost as if Beard was a balanced weight beside him, his absence leaving him leaning hard in the other direction to compensate.

Daniels breaks cover to stab an enemy in the back, and that provides a diversion for a few minutes. It’s not possible to stew in your misery when the life of your squadmate depends on your covering fire. His bloodthirst isn’t necessary here however, there’s only a handful of men to mow down and the base is clear. It doesn’t bother him too much, though, what sport there was in well-timed bullets provides a much-needed catharsis for the longing he feels so sharply. In the stillness that follows he feels a calm of his own, absently flicking a chunk of flesh off of his slacks.

He’s thinking to himself about using the machete he found leaned against a wall on any stragglers when the sound of dry brush crackling under light footfalls just outside reaches him. He’s raring and ready to go with his newly confiscated blade in hand when he rounds the corner, to see Beard walking up, with Barnes in tow. 

All the dark intent runs out of him like oil, evaporating in the gleam off of his glasses and the weary warmth in his gaze.

They camp there for the night, holed up in one of the back rooms with their sleeping bags, and Jacket is reminded of crashing on the bus during away games in high school. It’s different now, of course, too much at stake to really get the kind of sleep he’d get after scoring the winning goal in overtime, but it’s the same too. A guy breathing in his sleep doesn’t sound any different if he’s gonna shoot people in the name of freedom when he wakes up. It’s for the best anyways, if you could tell someone’s intent that way he’d have been smothered in his sleep a long time ago.

The door barricaded, they’re allowed the luxury of all sleeping through the night. Nobody talks as they turn in, not willing to jeopardize any free seconds of unconsciousness with unnecessary talking.

Peering at Beard’s broad back, Jacket takes a moment to consider the slope of his shoulders, tracing them up to his long neck. An idea begins to take form, and he slips his dog tags into his shirt for safe keeping. There’ll be time for that later, but for now, he rolls onto has back, to get some well-deserved rest.


	4. [gen] jacket and pardo in the interrogation room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "i know this never happens in canon but would you care for writing a fic abt what you would think would happen if pardo and jacket met? maybe jacket gets a call to dispose of pardo or pardo happens to wander in on jacket at work?"

They’d had the man in custody for less than an hour when Pardo had strode in, coat flaring behind him as he made haste directly towards the interrogation room, cutting directly through groups of people standing around talking tersely, doing nothing. The whole station was humming with potential energy, on a knife’s edge more plainly than was strictly professional. Pardo, however, had made a career insinuating himself in places people didn’t want him, and parting the sea of people in the hallway was a practiced sort of easy. He’d gotten so far as to have his hand on the doorknob when someone with a strong grip on his shoulder stopped him.

“Detective, I do hope you realize that this man is responsible for the presumably hundreds of deaths, including all of the men at the station we held the first vigilante we caught. This isn’t something you can just stroll on into.”

“I also realize he hasn’t said a word since you brought him in, and if anybody can crack him it’s me.”

“Yes, your reputation precedes you, Detective. Try to leave him in one piece, the cameras here are better than the ones in your precinct, I don’t expect to see them mysteriously losing footage today.”

Choosing not to dignify that with a response, he pushed into the room, meeting no further resistance.

Pardo took the opportunity while pulling out his chair and sitting to study the other man. Greasy blond hair in a disheveled side part, deep slices of bruised looking skin under his eyes, a freshly healed scar on his temple, sunken cheeks– all of these disparate parts came together to form an image that belied his true nature– he looked more the part of a long-term inpatient deep down in some hospital than a vengeful icon of Russian slaughtering nationalist vigilantism (or a “True American Hero” if the Anti-RAC protesters’ signs were to be believed). He’d been stripped of his jacket too, looking pale and cold in his stained undershirt. Jacket, for his part, remained nonchalant, maintaining steady eye contact with the wall behind him.

“So, the Masked Maniac of Miami. That’s a good name, good branding. I bet your real name isn’t as good. Something like John or Paul. Or Melvin.”

Jacket’s eyes flicked over to him, blinking slowly, lazily even. The audacity of this man, to be calm as his entire life outside of a concrete box was about to end! Pardo saw red.

“Do you know,” he murmured, trying to keep his tone low as he produced the evidence bag from inside his blazer “What this is?”

Jacket’s eyes tracked the motion of his hands, running his tongue across his teeth as he considered the object before him. He shook his head.

“It’s a disposable lighter you dropped at the scene of one of your little performances. We have more than just this, you weren’t as tidy as you thought you were, and now with your fingerprints, we’ll be able to connect you to plenty of other things. You’ve already got a rap sheet a mile long, and it’s only gonna get longer as we find more and more. Do you understand?”

Jacket shrugged, and it was all Pardo could do to keep from snarling outright.

“You know, I saw you once, a couple of weeks ago. You were with that girl.” The rattling of Jacket’s cuffs was the most satisfying sound Pardo had ever heard.

“She was too pretty to look so sad. I don’t blame her, though, I’d be pretty busted up if my boy toy was a ruthless killer. I’d prolly be glad enough to die just to get away from him, myself.”

Jacket was really getting riled up now, twisting his arms in the restraints. His amicable mood had soured now, placid expression sliding off of him, replaced by a grimace twisting its way across his face. He wasn’t that attractive, Pardo decided. His features were too sharp and in this light his crooked nose wasn’t nearly as charming.

Having gotten his reaction he stood up. He was concocting a good one-liner to throw over his shoulder as he left when Jacket landed a solid kick to his shin that made him buckle, slamming his hands onto the table for support. Hunched over as he was, he found himself much closer to the ruthless killer than he’d like to be.

Jacket’s expression had smoothed out again, and rather than lunge at him to try to close the distance he cocked his head and opened his mouth for the first time. An uncanny calm settled over him, like the folding of wings.

“Be careful out there, Detective Pardo. Don’t want people seeing your strings.”

Pardo booked it out of the room, and the station, raspy warning ringing in his ears. Later, when Evan would ask him to describe his encounter for his book, he’d leave out Jacket’s second line. Such a meaningless statement didn’t make for a good story anyways.


	5. [jacketgf] angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miamijpg asked "listen....a gross angsty comic about jacket missing girlfriend, ive never read ur fanfics but i Gotta See"

His recollection of her, even with the hurt still so raw, was already beginning to fuzz out around the edges. Maybe it was more a testament to his mental state as of late, of how his brain felt like it had been flattened with a rolling pin and spread across a countertop, that he could only imagine her (and him, together) in static snatches of memory, like how she used to flip through tv channels fast enough to give him a headache. It almost felt like an insult to her memory, to not be able to form a pretty through line to tie up her memory, her suffering, and her healing, into a cohesive whole.

Even though a coherent narrative escapes him, he remembers.

The first thing that comes to him is the acrid reek of nail polish in the bathroom. It had been among the first things she’d purchased on her own after she’d come home with him, and she had a schedule known only to herself that she kept to when it came to upkeep. Sometimes she’d change polishes three times in a day, others she’d go until it had chipped off almost completely before taking it off and starting again. Her favorite, metallic blue, was already half gone in the precious few months she had with him.

It was smashed against the wall when he found her, like she’d tossed it in surprise.

The smell makes him sick to think about now.

 

* * *

 

He remembers walking to the corner store to buy food with her, loading up on junk food, and some healthy choices at her strong, stern-faced suggestion. Hanging out with her was easy, trailing after her through the aisles.

In the conspicuous absence of anyone recognizable behind the counter, she was the only friendly face in town.

 

* * *

 

Close on the heels of that, he remembers what made him realize that he played a similar role in her life.

When he’d woken up that morning he found her leaning on the kitchen table smoking and tugging at her hair lost in thought. He shuffled past her to shove his head under the tap to drink, ignoring her disapproving snort. When he’d surfaced for air, straightening slowly to avoid his back protesting too much, a pat on his arm got his attention.

“Do you think you can help me cut my hair?”

Her bangs had been getting into her eyes a lot lately, and he agreed without thinking. Everything had progressed smoothly, and she settled into a chair right there in the kitchen with a towel around her shoulders.

Jacket was one to take things at face value when he could, so it was maybe understandable that he had gotten a couple of cuts in before realizing the significance. He looked down at his scarred, bruised hands, large enough to make the kitchen shears seem small by comparison, holding a carefully parted section of her hair. She knew what he did, knew what he was, and still she allowed him to hold a sharp metal object by her neck. So brave, so impossibly reckless.

His hands had trembled so badly he had to put the scissors down, sitting on the cold tile floor and leaning against her legs as she waited patiently for him to recover.

 

* * *

 

She was so patient with him, sitting up at night through nightmares and late jobs, watching one of the cop procedurals she taped whenever she got the chance. The first time he’d opened his apartment door to the sound of gunfire he’d sprinted into the living room, casting around for a weapon and breathing hard, so she took to keeping the tv muted, listening to late night radio instead.

 

* * *

 

Both of them were missing domestic skills, and learning things like laundry and cooking more often than not turned into a comedy of errors, leaving them in soap suds up to their ankles, or evacuating everybody from the building due to grease fires, but they learned together.

It meant so much to him to be able to puzzle through something like the inscrutable instructions for the blender she’d impulse bought with someone on his level, who wouldn’t talk down to him.

 

* * *

 

He had all the time in the world now, laying on the bed in his cell, to remember her as she was, a survivor and so, so human, in a world full of animals, some wearing rubber masks, some not. So he did.


	6. [beardjacket] hs au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "Jacketbeard high school au <3"

Jacket’s wolfing down his food at the cafeteria table he usually sits at, one of the ones shoved against the wall, when Beard tosses his backpack and lunch tray on the table to sit on the bench beside him. Beard’s backpack is heavier than three of his combined, seams worn from overpacking, and the table bows a little as he unzips it to shove his arm in, searching for something.

“Hey man, you see that new sub in for Goodman? Poor guy has no idea what he’s doing. How are you by the way? I have notes from the class you missed yesterday, hold on just let me find them,”

Jacket hums gratefully, holding a chip up for him to eat as he flips through his notebook, even though he wishes he could skip the rest of the day. Beard sticks his neck out, displaying an admirable degree of coordination getting it between his teeth as his eyes are preoccupied with finding the correct page, but the goofy grin that spreads across his face makes him drop it. He groans good-naturedly as he hands the notebook over, stealing a chip off of his tray.

Their legs touch as he sits down to eat, and Jacket glances down at where they connect, suddenly noticing a surplus of nervous energy, perfect to redirecting into the busywork of copying all of the notes Beard had been kind enough to provide him with. Beard’s handwriting is the awkward scrawl of someone with terrible penmanship trying to be legible, and a quick flip through the rest of his notebook reveals that that’s the case. He feels his heart squeeze a little, at how Beard goes out of his way to help him so often.

The little doodle of him in the margin of some notes on ‘Geogneqly’– whatever that was supposed to be– caught his eye. Beard wasn’t a serious artist, just into doing little cartoons to make people laugh, but there's care taken in depicting his little jawline, and nose, and the curve of his neck, and it shows. It was clearly something he’d spent time on, even if he couldn’t really figure out how to draw his hair.

“Whatcha looking at dude?” Beard asks, partially muffled by the sandwich in his mouth.

Jacket gestures to the little drawing, tilting his head curiously at Beard’s uncomfortable laughter.

“Oh yeah, I just, uh, couldn’t focus on Bregman’s lecture. She really needs to get some visual aides or something.”

Beard was looking like he wanted to bolt, rubbing his hand on the collar of his t-shirt (the one with a wizard on it, shooting lightning out of his hands), but he remained seated with what seemed to be a great deal of effort. he reached again into his bag, producing a cassette tape.

“I- made you a mixtape, by the way. Since I know you have a hard time getting radio at your place.”

Jacket knows he hadn’t mentioned that due to the simple fact he doesn’t say much of anything, ever. His questioning glance caught Beard mid-bite, and he chewed fast to respond, “I noticed when I came to pick you up when you needed a lift to practice. It’s not a big deal, just some stuff i thought you’d like. I do a lot of sitting around at the station, so I thought I’d make something of the time.” Beard worked at least two jobs, so Jacket wasn’t surprised he got most stuff done during lulls there. His chill smile was starting to strain, so Jacket took it, slipping it into the inside pocket of his letterman.

Jacket thinks he can see the shape of the man Beard’s going to be sometimes, broad shoulders and facial hair make him look older, but it’s mostly in the tenacious way he gets when he sees something and decides to focus his attention on it until whatever it is works better than it did when he started. He knows he’s one of those things, and it makes him feel bashful sometimes. He tries not to bask too much in the glow of Beard’s favor, usually, but he makes an exception for a second, a grin creeping across his face. The urge to kiss his face bubbles up unexpectedly, and he turns back to his food to avoid any awkwardness.

Reassured by his unusual display of open expression, Beard starts talking again, waving to Biker and the Girl on their way to class.

“I thought every time I saw that guy he was on his way to gym but I guess he just wears the headband all the time? He’s really on the cutting edge of fashion, huh?” Beard is the only person Jacket knows who would say that entirely sincerely, and it’s endearing in a way that’s uniquely him.

The bell rings, signalling the end of their lunch break, and they both stand up reluctantly, Jacket returning Beard’s notebook to him. He’s got as much out of it as he’s going to, anyways.

“By the way, the battle of the bands is coming up and i know we’ve all been busy, but we really should get the Ghostwolves back together. Barnes and Daniels might be harder to convince, but I think they’ll come around when they see the new logo I designed.”

They both stand and set off, their hands brushing as they walk. Beard grabs his hand, squeezing just for a second, before turning off into a different direction.

Jacket thinks he imagines the tremble in Beard’s voice when he calls “Don’t forget we have a test 6th period!” over his shoulder, but he definitely doesn’t miss that he’s going down the wrong hallway.


	7. [beardjacket] more war angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "Could i maybe ask for some shippy beardjacket war angst? like one of them has been shot in the field? hope that makes sense :D love ya wriitng!"

It’s only five to four when Beard bothers to count out the odds, and they’re clearly less trained than his boys are, but they’re two miles deep in enemy territory, and surely it won’t be that easy. The ones in front are easy enough to dispatch, and the cartoonish arc of arterial spray coming off of the shorter one makes Barnes chuckle aloud (to Daniels’ audible disgust). The ones in back, however, are big guys, bigger than Daniels even, and have heavier armor. It’s a struggle to push them back, even with heavy fire, and Beard wishes he’d brought his flamethrower instead. Sure enough, just as the last one drops, more men come pouring through the trees, at least six of them, all with the cold, scarred faces of veterans, like mannequins poured in pale plastic.

The fight kicks up then, and their chances continue to improve bit by bit as they take each enemy out. Beard has reminded them time and again that each fight is a puzzle of increments until they have the upper hand, and the patience that comes with knowing that has done wonders for their squad he thinks, as he drives his knife home in someone’s neck. There’s only a few left once again. 

The barrel of a pistol drops horizontally inches in front of his nose, and the muzzle flash stuns him for a second before Barnes, the gun’s owner, pushes him in the direction he’d shot, his sharp nails digging into his bare arm with urgency. Beard stumbles until his vision clears, and when it does he sprints over to where Jacket is downed, writhing on the ground, still casting about for a weapon, even with the hole in his gut. The Russian Barnes had shot is crumpled a foot from where Jacket was, and Beard is struck with how close a call that really was, kicking the man’s rifle away.

Beard kneels at Jacket’s side, who continues moving around even as the blood from the wound tracing up his side pools in his shirt and on the ground. It’s a scattered mess of torn flesh about the size of his hand with his fingers pressed together, but a lot of it seems to be superficial, surrounding a wide gash that takes a big chunk out of the side of his torso, blessedly missing the bottom of his ribcage by inches. Beard’s firm hand on his sternum stops him cold, and he pushes him down to lie on his back, swallowing his jitters.

“Hey, I need you to stay put. You’re gonna be fine, but stop moving.”

Beard settles into the practiced calm he’s so used to, and his face smooths out as his mind goes into overtime, tearing through all of the possibilities and plans and fatalistic certainties that make up his thought processes at times like these. Jacket flinches as Beard’s steady hands begin the process of basic field medicine, but the placid, empty look on his face makes him more nauseous than the pain shooting through his nervous system does.

Beard knows his chillness unnerves people sometimes, that his small mysterious smiles can do more harm than good in the wrong circumstances, sometimes even uses that to his advantage in conversations with higher ups, but he can’t help it, even if he could see it from the outside like everyone else. The way his eyes dull and his lopsided smile pulls uncomfortably at his mouth, it seems more like he’s a corpse brought back to life that hasn’t remembered appropriate reactions and is just winging it than somebody pulling pieces of metal from someone’s injury.

“You’re gonna pull through without a doubt, dude.”

The other two have finished up the last stragglers, and they pass by as they split up, Barnes breaking into a run to go for help, Daniels stationing himself further up the path to stand watch.

With the area cleared out, the area is stiflingly quiet, and Beard’s monologuing picks up as he winds bandages carefully around him.

“Yeah this is pretty standard stuff man, you’ll be making a very speedy recovery for sure. Stay with me, help will be here soon. You’ve seen how fast Barnes can go when there’s something good in the mess hall, he’ll be back in no time.”

The bandages would make it hard to breathe, if the slash in his side wasn’t already doing that.  
He feels weak enough that it’s hard to bring his hand up to rest on Beard’s neck. Beard’s smile morphs into something genuine, and his voice goes soft as he leans in “I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to my boyfriend, would I?” Beard’s hands shake a little as they encircle his jaw, and then they’re kissing, surrounded by a dozen cooling corpses.


	8. [beardjacket] fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "beardjacket for 7 or 45 for the drabble thing (there are so many good ones holy fuck)"
> 
> i chose-- 45. “Tell me a secret.”

Beard’s pensive as he mutters it, eyes not entirely connecting with Jacket, more tracing the outline of him like the noonday heat waves were doing to the concrete. That simmering tension carried over into his body language, hunched over the gun he was cleaning.

Remembering who he was talking to, he corrected himself. “Sorry, I know you’re not much for conversation, and I don’t mean to pry,” he said, nudging his ankle with his boot. It was one of a hundred little friendly gestures he gave out throughout the day like it was nothing. They were both tactile people, and Jacket appreciated it, as he considered his response.

“It’s for the best anyway, all the words in the world couldn’t change our current course,” his cryptic one-liners were familiar at this point, and Jacket flicked his eyes over to see the wan little smile that always accompanied them, familiar in its certainty.

Jacket carefully produces a squished package out of his pocket, waving it in Beard’s field of vision to get his attention. Beard drew his head back to see it more clearly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger.

“Shit, I haven’t seen a hostess cupcake in months. Lucky duck, where did you get that?”

Jacket holds a finger up to his mouth, schooling his expression into one of total seriousness. It’s hard to maintain as he tears the plastic open, surreptitiously glancing at Beard’s jealous face.

He shoves all of one in his mouth at once, with some difficulty as the pastry was not designed to be bite-sized, but he glances over at Beard with it engouled half in his mouth, and a sardonic wiggle of his eyebrows almost sets them both off. It does get Beard, his laughter echoing off of the walls. He recovers somewhat as Jacket finishes it off, and he’s opened his mouth to say something, which proves a perfect target for the second cupcake in the pack. He’s startled, tensing for a second before relaxing again, reaching up to grab what he couldn’t bite.

He’s quiet for a second as he savors it, taking more bites than Jacket, but not many.

“Better secret than a lot of the ones going around, that’s for sure. And way more enjoyable to share. Thanks”


	9. [beardjacket] smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "could we have some jacket / beard smut? or!!! barnes / daniels smut!! 

  
“God, it’s really coming down suddenly, huh buddy?” Beard murmurs as they duck under the pavilion.

Water droplets obscure his eyes under his glasses. and he has to peel his shirt away from his belly to wring it out, revealing skin several shades paler than the tan of his arms. It makes the fuzz on his belly stand out, even with the slowly strobing old street lamp washing him out in yellow light. The same glow stretches across Jacket’s hands, dulling the contours of them as he reaches around to slot them into Beard’s back pockets.

There’s only one picnic table, and he shuffles them both over to it, sucking a mark just under Beard’s ear with a single-mindedness that had helped the two of them while many a pleasant stolen moment away together. It would be covered up by his hair when they were done, and he only ever left one, but he knew the next time Beard’s ears perked up out on the field he’d be feeling it. Beard, picking up on his intentions, paused for a second, tensing slightly, and Jacket kept working at his neck while standing there, letting him think through the safety and variables to his own satisfaction.

A few seconds passed this way, until Beard makes his mind up, and pushing on his chest, guides Jacket to lie back on the bench, straddling him.

Beard dips down to peck him on the lips before scooting back to sit on his thighs, palming Jacket’s dick through his pants with one hand and opening his own belt clumsily with the other. They’d tossed their packs under the table when they’d gotten there, and he reaches into a side pocket of his now, pulling a little tube of lotion from it.

“It pays to be prepared,” he says with a wink, “Mind helping me out?”

Jacket does want to help, and obediently warms the cold lubricant in his hand before pulling Beard chest to chest with him, and sliding his slicked hand down the cleft of his ass, his other hand gripping the soft flesh of one of his cheeks, opening him up further. With slow rubs, he works his first finger in, kneading his behind as he continues at a methodical pace.

“You’re doing so good, preparing me so well,” Beard says dreamily, pressing his cheek into his collarbone.

Jacket’s not hurrying, but he’s not going slow either, with the kind of ease that comes from knowing someone intimately more than a few times. The third finger usually takes a little bit of extra care, and Jacket distracts him by returning to the hickey he’d started. The ache makes Beard gasp quietly before he starts mumbling little encouragements, lips brushing his ear.

When he’s sufficiently prepared, he sits up. He rolls his shoulders and unzips Jacket’s pants, tugging them down enough to pull his cock out of his boxers.

Beard sits back between his legs and pumps him for a minute, just watching him as his hips jerk and his face gets redder. Jacket tries to pull him up, to indicate that he doesn’t need it, that he’s ready to go, but he squeezes a little bit tighter and starts to trace the line where his shirt’s ridden up with his fingers.

“A sight for sore eyes, that for sure,” he says, “Anybody’d be lucky to see you here and now. I’m so damn lucky to see you like this.”

Jacket tries again to pull him up, certain that his face has given something away. “I mean it you know,” he goes, easy this time.

He gets Jacket’s in hand and lowers himself onto it with a fluid ease, rolling his hips on his way down. He takes a moment to appreciate Jacket’s length fully sheathed within him, grinding down with a hum. “You’ve been so patient for me, and I’m gonna return the favor, gonna make it real good for you.”

He braces his hands on Jacket’s chest, and his own hands automatically go to his waist to stabilize him. Starting with little bobbing motions, he’s moving together with the bucking of Jacket’s hips more than anything, building up speed in his own time.

“You’re so good, always got my back, know I can count on you, always,” Beard thinks for a moment, “Nice butt too. Next time it’s gonna be me splitting you open, babe, love to give you what you deserve, whatever you want.”

The compliments he’d been so carefully storing up for Jacket have started pouring out of his mouth with increasing frequency as the speed picks up, and although Jacket had made sure not to give away how they made him feel (like he would sprint through hell and not notice the flames, if Beard asked him to), it was harder to do when such a gorgeous man was bouncing on his lap, and calling him beautiful.

Beard reaches down to grab his own dick, hissing at the feel of Jacket’s hands sliding down to grip his ass, painting red ribbons across the soft flesh with the force of his grip. Beard comes with a groan, biting his lip prettily, and he lets Jacket guide his hips as he rides it out.

Once he recovers, he focuses on getting Jacket off, watching his reaction, enchanted, when he clenches around him, gazing at him with open affection on his face. This, of all things, ends up being too much for Jacket to bear, and he turns his face away with a heavy exhale.

Beard sees his opportunity, leaning in to whisper against his jaw, “I love you, you know.”

A stuttered gasp rattles out of his chest and he’s coming, jerking beneath him and clutching onto him for dear life.

On their way out into the storm once again, Jacket keeps a lot closer to him, staring at his face unblinkingly as if to detect something lurking in his expression to give away some hidden machinations. Beard rubs his back. “Not getting all tangled up now are you? It won’t help us in a fight if we can’t see past the hearts in our eyes,” he says not unkindly, and then, gentler “I mean what I said, okay? Really.”

Jacket scratches his jaw and nods. Walking past, he smacks Beard’s ass, snorting at the sound of Beard stumbling at the sting of fresh bruises lighting up on his behind.


	10. [barnesdaniels] smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "may you write... some barnes/daniels drunken shenanigans...."

  
“‘N I was like– I’m not superstitious but I still wouldn’t fuck around in the woods even back then on the off chance there really was a werewolf prowling around you know? Doing all that wolfy shit and eating people? Fuck nah man. I mean there’s enough shit in this jungle out here I wouldn’t mess with, and it’s only humans I gotta worry about.”

Barnes is trying to balance his bottle of beer on his knee as he regales Daniels with the latest story from his well-wasted youth, and in the heavy fog that’s rolled in he can still tell that Barnes is smashed, enough so that even lying on his back he’s having trouble with it. He’s flat on his back close by himself, with his face tilted lazily towards his comrade, studying his profile. His outline is murky only a foot away, an abstraction that allows him to look as he pleases without the uncomfortable clarity that would allow Barnes to realize, and return his gaze. The arm that comes down to whack him none too gently across the face is a surprise, though. He makes an ugly squawking sound and jabs Barnes in the ribs.

“The everloving fuck’re you doing Barnes?” he rasps out over the pounding of his heart. He’d been nursing his own alcohol-induced drowsiness with low-key relief at the luxury of it and is pissed to feel it evaporate out of him in one fell swoop.

“Well, I was tryna make sure you were paying attention but actually why the fuck is your face so soft motherfucker? Like a baby’s butt under that fabric over your mouth, the fuck.” He’d taken his keffiyeh off when his breath had gotten heavy and boozy and made him feel like he was swimming in whiskey, sometime in the last hour.

“I’m not sure if you’ve heard of this thing called being fat but it tends to make things like my rugged manly edges round out some. Asshole.”

“Nah man like your skin, you been secretly moisturizing out here, leaving the rest of us out here ashy and scaly? That’s how the commies are gonna win you know, when the rest of us blow away in a soft sea breeze, like, poof!” his voice is sly, with the edge of someone trying not to laugh, and even without looking Barnes’ face pops into his mind, face split with the harsh toothy grin Daniels could hear slicing his words into shape. The odd trickle of warmth in his chest is chased by annoyance at how awake he currently is.

“I was listening, actually,” he grumbles out. The flash of adrenaline has fizzled out of him, leaving his chest hollow and settling an itchy weight behind his brow as it goes.

“Sure didn’t act like it. You clocking out on me? The night’s still young my man.” There’s a rasp of fabric as Barnes scratches his chest absently, and he knows that means he’s more tired than he lets on.

“Night’s looking pretty damn old actually, only got a couple hours til daylight I reckon. We should get some sleep.” It’s wishful thinking on his part, and he rolls over as he said it, preemptively getting into Barnes’ space.

“I don’t know, I still got some energy left in me,” the mischevious tone is back in his voice “Unless… you wanna help me out with getting rid of some of this pent up stress–”

“Fine.” Daniels knows he’s responded too quickly as soon as he’s said it; he ignores curious little hum from Barnes as he slots himself into the space behind him, manhandling him onto his side.

“I coulda moved myself you know,” Barnes says as he hastily tugs his fatigues open. Neither of them comment on the fact that they’re spooning, at ease with their situation and each other even as they bicker.

“But you didn’t,” he shoots back, spitting into his hand cursorily and shoving it into Barnes’ boxers.

Barnes’ response is cut off with a grunt as he digs his heels into the soft earth beneath them. Daniels grip on his cock is hotter than the midday sun and it fills his gut with warmth and pulls at his thigh muscles. The slackening of his limbs feels fucking amazing and he luxuriates in it, bucking his hips in time with Daniels’ long pulls. He’s always a little surprised at the little catch of callouses on his sensitive flesh but the spit does its job, and the wet hole made with the big strong curl of his hand is the best thing Barnes has felt in a long time.

Daniels peers over his shoulder with a detached interest, and Barnes can feel his gaze like the heat from a spotlight, working him up further. The pleasure has spread up his spine and down his legs, and when Daniels tightens his grip with a twisting motion it wrings a whine out of him; he comes in thick ropes over his hand, and it drips into his own lap with his final thrust.

Barnes flops back bonelessly, shoving his dick back into his pants without bothering to button them and taking a final swig of beer. He’s out like a light, breathing softly through his teeth before Daniels can even pull himself back from under his back.

“Figures,” he grumbles, wiping his hand off on Barnes’ pants and awkwardly dropping his head onto the damp dark neck in front of him “better fucking pay me back in the morning man.”


	11. [tonyash] smut, rope bondage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "if you're taking requests for prompts still, could i maybe request something with ash and tony? fluff or smut is fine (i absolutely love your fanfics by the way!)"

Tony's thighs are a reassuring weight on his own as he adjusts the red rope binding Tony's left leg, keeping it bent in half. The other leg is free, foot dug into the comforter under them as he gets used to being settled half on Ash's lap without the use of his hands. He's blindfolded, and the first slide of Ash's hands across his slicked up torso has him jolting, pulling the rope binding his arms above his head tight. He thumbs a nipple, surprised to watch him twist with an aggravated huff; he's starting to get hard. His not speaking isn't a surprise to Ash anymore; not a talker during sex normally, he seems to quiet down even further when they play like this. Ash banks on it, in fact, they'd both had a tense few days, a near miss during a mission leaving Ash with a burn across his forearm and stomach that concerned Tony more than him, setting them both on edge.

He hasn't even gotten started yet, just checking the rope is allowing for proper circulation and isn't putting too much stress anywhere, but Tony's writhing around is revving him up like nothing else.

As methodical as Ash is, watching Tony's muscles flex, golden skin complimented by the bright rope, sends him sinking into the sluggish instinctual place in the depths of his mind. This is unfamiliar territory for him, usually so ruled by his higher thoughts, and he wonders if that's what Tony has meant before, when he talks about how he feels during missions in that fanatic, blown out voice during their wind downs.

He's been absently running his hands down Tony's sides, watching his hands glide at half speed, and he stops to fit the curves of his hands into the cut of muscle on either hip, tilting forward until he faceplants into Tony's chest, groaning as he breathes in the thick musk of his skin. He opens his mouth, lolling his tongue out to drag up the long column of his neck, already dotted with purpling spots from past exploits, and rearranges both of their legs so he's straddling him.

"You ready?" he says.

Tony growls in response and goes taut under him.

He'd prepared himself ahead of time at a downright luxurious pace while waiting for him, and after rolling a condom on Tony, he wastes no time in sinking down onto his fat cock. Ash's eyes roll back into his head, biting his lip to try to stop from grinning and failing miserably. He shivers a little at the luscious stretch of it, flexing his thighs around Tony's waist.

"God Tony you should have seen the face I made just now," he says meanly, "It was so goofy. Couldn't help myself."

Hooking his index fingers under the ropes curving across Tony's chest, he tugs at them, resettling himself on his lap. He starts with little grinding motions, feeling a little surge of heat at the frustrated little grunts the tight circles of his hips are drawing out of Tony.

A sweat drop trails down his cheek, and unable to get leverage with three of his limbs immobilized he can only roll his hips, bouncing Ash a bit. It's a futile gesture, but Ash starts to rock anyways, building up speed.

He falls into a comfortable rhythm, moving his body and clenching his internal muscles and getting a hand on his own dick all second nature to him. Even noticing Tony's moans getting louder and the headboard rattling with the force of Tony trying to get free doesn't shake him out of his head until the body beneath him is bucking and pulling at his restraints, flooding his insides with heat.

Ash pulls off Tony gingerly, a plan already forming. He tosses the condom at the trash can, wincing when it hits the floor.

"That good huh," he says, plush lips quirking.

"Shut up, fuck off." Tony manages to groan back.

Tony's jaw is lax, and when Ash pulls the blindfold off his expression is zoned out, his eyes taking a second to focus. They darken when he sees Ash straighten his back, looming above his supine form, and he licks his lips and cranes his neck anticipatorily. Ash pushes his head back against the pillow.

"Stay."

Ash leans back on his haunches and finds it's not difficult to get his hands back onto himself, jerking it to the pretty picture Tony makes, all tied up and nowhere to direct his barely contained power, golden eyes glinting hungrily in the low light. Coming across that sharp jaw and dark lips is a unique pleasure, more so when he sees his tongue dart out to taste him, thick on his face. It gives him a headrush and from the look on Tony's face he's feeling much the same way.

Later, when he's gotten Tony untied and wiped down, they sit together cross-legged on the freshly stripped bed and eat takeout.

"Hey, hey," Ash asks, patting his pec crossed with scarlet ligature marks "What kind of tiger has red and white stripes?"

Tony is silent for a second, considering until it clicks into place and he shoves Ash off the bed with a snarl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i agonized and stressed so hard over this for so long but it was worth it for the fuckin tiger joke thanks good night fellas
> 
> (idk if it's obvious or not but the condom/comin on face thing was intended to be a power dynamics thing lol)


	12. [gen] alex and ash gettin into shenanigans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "Could I maybe request some swan twin shenanigans?"

Alex has his arm in a death grip, dragging him bodily into the broken down apartment complex before he thinks to ask what they're doing.

"It's family bonding time motherfucker," she says, and the familiar set of her jaw tells him it's best to follow along. With some difficulty he gets his legs caught up to the rest of him and starts walking at her pace, giving her arms a break (not that she needs one, he thinks, feeling the ease at which she pulls him along with some small amount of jealousy.)

"But why?" he asks, swiveling his head around and tugging his collar to get his shirt to settle more comfortably.

The look she shoots him is just as caustic as ever. "The fuck you mean 'but why'? What, a sister can't take her lil bro on a good old fashioned abandoned building exploration? You used to love it when we were kids."

" _I_ loved soccer, _you_ loved getting in trouble and breaking your arms in old condemned houses. And I'm the older brother." He stands facing the street as she tries to pick the lock, brushing peeling paint off of his shoulder from where he leaned against the exterior.

"Yeah," she grunts, "but i'm bigger. Damn," he hears the clinking of metal on concrete and turns.

  
"Here, let me," he says, shoving her out of the way and swiping the lockpick off the ground. "Fuckhands McMike."

"The hell does that mean?" she asks. He manages to catch himself as he pitches forward with the force of the kick she lands on his ass, throwing his forearm against the sturdiness of the door.

"That's your new name, asshole. I just came up with it." he ignores her disgusted noise, and in a minute he's got the lock open, the door swinging open into a dark interior, air thick with the rotting smell of humidity contained within a room for too long. He takes the first couple steps into the entryway and Alex is close behind him, outpacing him to make a beeline for the mailboxes. She skims her fingers down the line, rotating her shoulders to hike her backpack up. It's a nervous habit he recognizes and he peers over her shoulder to see what she's looking for.

"Fuck off, that's not even good. Okay, fifth floor." She backs up and turns to the stairs, brushing her bangs back into their part so she can see better.

"What about the elevator?" Ash asks.

Her upper body twists to look in his direction, but her feet stay firmly planted. She glances over at it, taking in the warped doors and broken button panel, and when her narrowed eyes return to him she grunts incredulously. "That old piece of shit probably didn't work when people lived here, you really want to take your chances with it?"

"Power's out anyways, I just don't want to climb all those stairs," he says.

  
"Here," Alex says, pulling her bag off her back and balancing her leg on the wall to rest it on her thigh. She produces a flashlight and a water bottle and waves the light at him as she takes a swig from the bottle. He clicks it on, sweeping over the debris strewn over the floor. The beam comes to rest on a dead rat and he retches as he follows Alex up the first flight.

The thumping of their feet on the concrete is comforting in its own way, and ahead of him, he sees her relax the tension in her arms, so he decides to press his luck.

"What is this all about, really," he asks, trying to catch her profile in the bouncing beam of light as they round the corner, mounting the next stairway.

She snorts. "Doesn't matter," she's not looking at him "It's fuckin stupid. Watch your step, ground's wet."

A pipe in the wall has burst, and they skirt the worst of the flooding as they go, clutching the railing.

He thinks for a moment before saying, "Whatever, if you want to play games that's fine," and waits.

"I don't play games," she shoots back "it's just, I don't know," she trails off, but she won't stop now she's started. He can be patient. They stop in the next landing so he can take a deep drink from the water bottle she passes him.

She breathes out heavily, and then, "We've just been so distant lately. I feel like, with me spending all my time with Corey lately, and you with Tony, and you moving out--"

"I left because I knew it was ticking you off not having a space all to yourself," he cuts in.

"Oh yeah, I get sick of seeing your ugly fucking face all the time for sure," she responds immediately, "But still, I really haven't seen you much outside of team meetings." She shoves all her hair back off her face, only to smooth it back down again.

They continue up another couple of flights in silence, picking around increasingly large obstacles while he considers what she's said. She's always been perceptive even if she doesn't show it, doesn't want other people to see it, so when she speaks up he listens.

The final staircase is packed with garbage bags and they have to hug the wall to squeeze past.

"Yeah, you're right, I've missed you lately too, Mark's no fun to gossip with about the dumb shit Tony says sometimes. He's too nice," he says, finally. "You didn't have to drag me out to this dump to reconnect though."

The hallway they pick their way into has police tape and bootprints covering every inch of the floor, but Alex stands in the dying light from the busted out window and gestures to the door with a jaunty sort of flair.

"Oh, but it's not just any dump," she says with a scheming grin.

"Thanks, Vanna White," he grumbles but he humors her anyways when he sees her expectant face, "Whos shithole is this then?"

"It's the apartment of the Masked Maniac, Jacket," she turns and tries to shove the door open, putting her weight into her shoulder and bearing down as the wood groans and the frame creaks.

"Oh, we're breaking into the old digs of a felon. Great," he glances back down the hallway and runs his hand over his scalp.

"He hasn't had his trial yet, you know that. Now help me," she shoots back, sneakers squeaking on the tile as she pushes.

"What am I gonna do?" He's proved right when a second later the door wobbles open, slamming into the wall.

Inside is much darker than the hall, and he sweeps the flashlight quickly through the gloom as Alex enters.

It reeks of some dead animal and it hits him as he follows after her, slamming his shoulder off the doorway on his way in, stumbling and gripping his arm "Ugh."

He grimaces at Alex's barely stifled laughter.

"What is it with you and doors?" she turns off to the left, and he ignores her, going right. He scopes out the living room, taking a couple steps in until he feels his shoes stick to the floor. His eyes shoot down, and then back up again, tracing the blood splatter up the wall from where it's puddled under his feet.

"Ugh. Hey Alex is the kitchen alright? Because the living room has a huge bloodstain." He wipes his feet on the carpet.

"He's got an NES!" she hollers back from the bedroom, "He probably won't mind if I take it, huh?" Before he can respond she emerges, already stuffing it into the bag.

"Guess not," he says as they meet at the front door again, facing the only room they haven't been in. The worst of the smell seems to be coming from there, and there's police tape streaming from around and under the door.

They look at each other. Ash shoves his hands in his pockets. Alex rolls her eyes and opens the door, jiggling the handle when it sticks.

At first, it looks like there's steam rising off of the massive bloodspatter staining the tiles of the bathroom floor, but as he blinks it resolves itself into a human form before his eyes. He's about to laugh it off until he feels Alex's fingernails dig into his arm with the force of her grip on his tricep.

"Holy shit," Alex whispers.

The form shimmers like heatwaves and sharpens further into the shape of a woman at the same time as the sound of radio static hums into being. The woman glances down at herself, mouth moving silently, and rotates slowly in place to take in the chalk outline and surrounding mess. She returns her gaze to them.

"w̸͙͢͜h͉̪͔̮͍̝̪̠̳a̱ͅt̨̡̳͇̗̱̜ ̵̢̝̜t̵̛͇͈h̸̡̹͓̟̺͔̼e̙̳̩͢ ̵̜͞f͉̱͈̕͡ư̰̤̰͉̮c̖͍͔̭̯͍k̨̘̝̼̘̗̱͓͉͟͡," she heaves a silent sigh "i̱ ̨̘͉w̴̫ḁ̩̮̫̳͖̲͉͢ͅs̰̻̣̰̰͙̭ ̰͕͕̭j̴͎̞̕u̹͍̠̱̝s͉͓̗̪͙̜̰t̨̗ ̸̻̠͘t̵̶̞͇͞ṛ̡̥̤͠y̨͉̯͜i̴̻̻̩ͅn̶̵̬͙̰̘ͅg̷̢͓͍͉̞̹͚͎̬ ̩̪̫̭̟̠̹̪t̰͚̭͎ͅo҉̣͍̯̥̜ ̴̫͎̦͇̭̣̤͞ͅt̝͓̯͉̙͔̦̟̭a̵̸͇̠̞̻͉̰̬̠͜k̵̞̤̯͕͉̺̪è̟̻̭̺̥͖̙̙͞ ̴͖̤̰̣͎̟a͏̴̼ ̟̟̀s̨͚͈̹͖͠h̨̯̝̻̘o͝҉̰̤̳̞͘w̴̠̦̥ȩ͙̣͕̮͕̮̞͎͔̕ŗ̼̭̬͓͕͟"

"U-uh, holy shit our bad," Alex stammers out, "we didn't mean to disturb you an- uh, like, damn you're hot, but! we uh, we'll go."

Ash is stock still, but he doesn't have to move his head to shoot Alex a look out of the corner of his eye that he knows she catches.

"y̵̳̼o͚̰̕ù̵͉͞'̠̠̕d̷͚͍̲̱͚͍̹͘̕ ̷̮̬̤̹̞͠b҉͓͍̩̣̖̭͓̲e̸̯t͉̤̳͠t̢͙̳̞̲̹͖͎̪̰͝e̪̺̺̜ŗ̴̤̯̬́,̭̰͈̙͕̻̬͢͝ ̷̨̥͚̟̖͈̣̩i͡͏̮͚ ̱̰̩͇͕̝̻̺t҉̙̼̥̝̫̭͞h͏͟҉̜̰̩͚̙̙ì̢̛͎̪n̠̤k̵̲̙̫," the woman says with half-lidded eyes and a wry twist to her lips.

Alex's arm is an iron bar across his chest, almost knocking the wind out of him as she pushes him back out of the door. The bathroom door slams behind them on its own as they leave but the sound is lost underneath the pounding of their feet as they bolt through the hall and down the stairs, fumbling and catching each other as they run.

They collapse onto the pavement out front, gasping and shaking from adrenaline. Alex rests her forehead on the cool cement and Ash wheezes in quiet laughter knowing the blush on her face isn't entirely from exertion.

When they've had a moment to catch their breath, Alex sits up, squinting at the upper levels of the building looming above them in the now dark night sky.

"Hey, how come she had a bath and a seperate shower but no toilet?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy late halloween
> 
> took some liberties w/ the buildin's layout, hope there's nothin that directly contradicts this in canon but the wiki was no help lol


	13. [gen, hinted ghostwolves ot4] even more wartime angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gerty-3000 asked "lizard i have drank 2 much red bull after an all-nighter and it is Time for Sad Boys In Hawaii"

Beard's temples are red from where he's been rubbing them, sliding his fingers back through his hair and then up to his forehead again. When he paces into Barnes' peripheral vision a fifth time, he reaches out to snag his arm, stopping its ascent as it tries to renew the cycle. The muscles in his arm tense, hand curling into a fist, and then relaxes again, laxer than it had been.

"That's not going to do you any good Lieutenant."

Beard smiles a bit, emptily. Despite the official title they're far beyond rank at this point, and he knows full well his men do it more for his reassurance than anything.

He's still in charge when it counts, of course, but outside of missions, he finds it increasingly futile to assume a sense of hierarchy with the Ghostwolves, when the power that supposedly backs him has gone suspiciously quiet for anything other than suicide mission assignations.

Therein lies the problem, he thinks. The US Army has tried so hard to legally bury their ragtag little unit out in the field that they find themselves teetering on the knife's edge of literalism with every new day.

An image rudely pushes its way into his mind, of sunrise parting the morning mist where the Colonel and Jacket are blanketed in the thick damp soil of enemy territory.

He shivers, ducking behind Daniels to use his bulk as a shield from the wind and kicking some viscera out of his way to stand more comfortably. It makes a sloshing noise as it rolls to a stop, and he pulls an exaggerated face, to make Barnes laugh.

Their separation from contact with others and the mainland has had other consequences too. As he rubs his arm to chase away the aftereffect of Barnes' touch he watches him steal a lit cigarette from between Daniels' parted lips, and Daniels turns mid-gripe to reach out to Beard, straightening his glasses and parting his hair out of his eyes for him with a knuckle, casual as can be.

Beard crouches down to retrieve Daniels' knife from the eye socket of an enemy as Barnes stomps over, rubbing his arms for warmth and groaning about a storm kicking up. He hears him chuckle at the wet sucking noise it makes as it releases from the skull and shakes his own head to keep either sound from echoing there.


	14. [tonyash] dom tony sub ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "Could I possibly request some Dom Tony/Sub Ash please? Your fics are amazing!"

It's all inertia with Tony really, Ash thinks to himself as he pushes his chest into the heavy hands hot across his pecs. Every action to Tony is obvious, like a ball rolling down a steep hill-- the ball never considers its actions, it just goes and rolls over anything that doesn't get out of its way. Ash, trying to keep up with his train of thought, just wishes he knew which direction the slope was.

"You took care of me last night," Tony says in that slow drawl of his. “Not that I needed it,” his eyebrow twitches, daring Ash to challenge him.

"It was more for my benefit than yours," he says flatly, but the way his big glassy eyes are staring, with the hint of teeth scraping his lower lip tells Tony what he needs to know.

"Then this is for me," he replies, focusing intently on his face just to see the flicker of uncertainty there. Ash's gaze darts away, just for a second, and when his eyes return Tony wraps one of his big scarred hands around the side of his neck, resting his thumb on his chin. He'd watched him remove his hand wraps when he'd gotten in, all the minute muscle movements showing off the interplay of the fine bones in his hands. They're maybe the only delicate parts of him, made more obvious when he's close enough to see the flex of Tony's arm as he tries to keep still for his response.

“Well then,” he says, finding his voice again, “What do you want?”

Tony, for all his bravado and barely-not-really restrained aggression, is a simple man, so when he pushes him down wordlessly, Ash goes.

He maintains wary eye contact the whole way down, knowing Tony likes it when he looks apprehensive in those rare moments when he doesn't have control of the situation. He plays that up for effect, sniffing defiantly as he stares up at him, watching the gold of his eyes darken under thick lashes and thicker brows.

His knees are kicked apart, but it's not until the cold weight settles over his crotch that he breaks his stare, impulsively grasping at his ankle and gasping. The smooth pointed toe of the boot digs into his lower stomach, tugging at the thin trail of hair there where his shirt has ridden up.

“Let go,” Tony says, and he obeys, setting his shaking hand on his thigh.

Ash doesn't know if Tony can feel anything through the sole of his boot but the way his breath is coming loud and uneven, rasping high in his throat makes his embarrassment at having gotten hard so fast obvious. When he lowers his hips, testing, Tony grinds his foot down, grabbing the back of his shirt when he doubles over and yanking it off in one sharp motion. Ash winces as the fabric whips over the burn on his arm, pulling it close to him only to grunt in surprise when he puts pressure on the wound when it continues across his upper stomach.

Tony steps back off of him at that and Ash scoffs as he hears the clacking of his steps as he circles around him.  
“What, you get off so soon?”

Ash listens to more of his boots clicking against the floor, followed by the sound of something smooth swiping against something rough, and then Tony crouches behind him.

“The only thing that's gonna hurt you tonight is me,” Tony says, and the skin on the back of his neck prickles at the proximity.

He wishes he'd thought to unzip his pants as anticipation runs electric through him, but when Tony's belt, leather warmed with use, wraps around his wrists it's like someone has hit a dimmer switch on his thoughts.

When Tony rounds into his field of vision again, naked save for the worn leather on his feet, Ash sizes him up, taking in the slope and span of his chiseled musculature as it leads his eye to the perfect V between his hips. There his cock juts, rudely interrupting the clean lines of his torso and thighs and on his knees, eye level with it, Ash feels small.

Tony's thigh swings up into his peripheral vision, and the sharp jab of a spur just under his shoulder blade causes him to arch his back to keep from putting pressure on it, but he can already feel a thin trickle of blood making its way down his back.

Ash has missed this, face crammed into the sweaty juncture of Tony's thigh, has a hard time keeping his eyes open as he drools on the hot flesh pressing into his mouth, sucking leisurely at his balls.

When his own spit starts to drip onto his chest, Tony hauls him off by the throat with one of those big paws of his. Ash doesn't have any time to appreciate the way his eyes light up in wicked glee at his yelp when the spur opens the cut further because he's shoved onto Tony's dick.

For the first time, he struggles against his restraints as his throat spasms and he tries to blink his eyes clear of tears. Tony switches legs for his own comfort, making a new mark to match on the other side of his back, and Ash realizes what he means to do. The trickle of blood widens into a stream as it begins to soak into his pants, and he's pushed and pulled between the sting of the spur and choking and moaning with Tony down his throat.

Tony finishes with a loud groan, holding Ash's face flush against him as what feels like waves of his cum roll down his throat. He pulls him off, lazily moving his head around so Ash can lick him clean, pushing a thumb through the mess accumulated on his chin, looking satisfied when he licks it off without being told.

Tony helps him out of his pants and removes the belt, rubbing his wrists for a couple of moments before standing again, staring down at him.

“If you like coming on me so much,” he says with a cruel twist of his lips, “Go on.”

His heels click together, and Ash hears the rasp of him rubbing his scalp in thought as he watches him take his cock in hand for the first time.

Ash gazes down at the scuffed surface of the boots once again and finds it isn't difficult at all to get himself off, the first pull sending an involuntary shiver through him.  
“You're gonna clean em off too,” Tony says.

Ash is too shaken to stifle the high moan that bursts out of his chest, but then he's coming, spattering up the whole length of them.

He hunches over, making quick work of his mess with his tongue, and moving to do the rest of the material eagerly, but Tony stops him, pulling him up onto his feet and kissing him sloppily.

“There's plenty of time for that later, let's get some sleep,” he says, slinging a big hot arm around his shoulders and pulling him towards bed.


	15. [tonyash, coreyalex] the twins have a fight, the others try to fix it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "can i request a fic with the swan twins getting into a fight that ends up getting way out of hand that causes their significant others (tony for ash/corey for alex) and mark to intervene to get them to make up?"

As the tallest person in the room, with Mark sitting down, Corey could see Ash make the crumpled fishface he does when he thinks Tony is making fun of him, except Tony isn't anywhere near him and with Alex's resulting mean laughter (that _doesn't_ make her heart flutter whatsoever) it tells her that they've been having an ugly expression off and that Alex is winning.

It had started over an argument about who's turn it was to vacuum the crumbs out of the attack van's hideously bloodstained shag carpeting and escalated from there, facilitating the now chilly silence that settled over the hideout like a plastic tarp covered in putrefying human remains.

* * *

“It's like the cold war all over again!” Mark had said to her, earlier that day.

“Which one was that?” asked Tony.

“Huh... I don't know actually,” she'd said after a moment of thought.

* * *

“You really should go talk to him,” she says, watching Alex cross her arms even more tightly and pull her legs up in front of her on the couch, looking like the world's most ripped preschooler. She sighs.

“ _Okay you can't say I didn't put in effort bye_.”

Tapping Mark's shoulder she ushers him into the garage for yet another meeting where Tony is already hanging out, presumably doing power poses by himself.

“What do we do—“ Mark starts, but he's cut off by Tony almost immediately.

“Cage match, no holds barred, whoever walks out is the better twin.”

“Alex doesn't have nearly enough self-control not to pulverize Ash, you know that,” she says, trying not to sigh dreamily.

“Ash looks good all bloody!” Tony shoots back indignantly.

“He won't look so hot when he's dead,” Mark says, attempting diplomacy.

“Fine,” Tony growls, “Then we make them settle it the old fashioned way.”

The arcade is mostly empty at 2 pm on a Thursday afternoon, so they can crowd around the pinball machines in peace, save for the vacant stare of the old guy at the ticket exchange counter.

“I still don't know why we couldn't do Skee-Ball instead,” Alex grumbles.

“Because look at the size of your fucking arms that's why!” Ash says, ignoring Corey's lecherous grin.

“Yeah well pinball is Skee-Ball but for fucking nerds so clearly I'm at a disadvantage!” Alex says.

“Well, what about the claw machine then?” Mark says, after having considered how well diplomacy had gone the last time.

“FINE,” the twins say in unison, sneering at each other.

The machine in question is full of plushies ripe for the picking and they peer in from opposite sides to get a read on the competition.

“Is that the zebra from that one gum?” Alex asks, glancing at Corey out of the corner of her eye.

“And there's that tiger from the cereal,” Ash says, looking at Tony.

“What a strange coincidence,” Mark says “I didn't even know the made stuffed animals of those mas—ugh!” He stops, as both Corey and Tony kick him.

After a very tense round of rock paper scissors to determine the playing order, Ash steps up, dodging a punch from Alex when he sticks his tongue out at her.

They take turns, a continuous stream of tokens going into the machine, until finally,

“Out of tokens? _Fucking seriously?!_ ”

As absorbed as they are by the eye catch of an entirely different game after two straight hours of high octane claw grab misses, neither Mark, Tony, nor Corey can tell who's shouted it, the high register rendering it a mystery. What they can hear, however, is the rage in the twin's voice who shouted it.

“Oh I'm sorry guys, I guess we'll have to find another way for you to work it out, I didn't need that stuffed animal anyways,” she says to Alex.

In that moment the twins make eye contact and they reach an understanding.

The sound of shattering glass is loud in the arcade, and then Alex is turning around, wrapping her cut up hand in the hem of her shirt as Ash shoves every stuffed animal in the case into her backpack.

The guy behind the counter doesn't even bother focusing his eyes as they pass him, dripping blood and shedding stuffing as they go, let alone try to stop them.

Corey clutches her stuffed animal to her chest in deadpan seriousness, pecking Alex on the lips as she gets in the van.

Tony, despite his machismo, stuffs his into the front of his shirt so it can stare at Ash's chest as they make out in the back seat the whole way home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna play skeeball now wtf


	16. [beardjacket] roadtrip au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked "pure good concept: jacket and beard going on a roadtrip or something"
> 
> (this may or may not have been a req i did it anyways cause i been thinkin abt a roadtrip au for prolly more than a year lol)

_He dreams his head is wrapped in bandages, senses deadened, only able to see trailing lights through one eye. His fingers find the clips holding the gauze in place and he tears them free._

_He unwraps the bandages._

_He unwraps the bandages._

_He unwraps the bandages._

_They keep spooling out from the aching pit of his head fist over fist, and he keeps pulling until it becomes apparent that there's more connected._

_He unwraps the skin._

He sits up, covered in sweat—the room is boiling and he stumbles over dirty laundry on his way over to the window. With a breeze rolling over his slimy body, he manages to sleep again.

_He dreams he's standing under a tree, branches heavy with dark syrupy fruit covered in pale husks, crushed and liquefying remains of the ones that fell too soon being swarmed by insects at his feet. He glances down at the fat beetles eating their fill and drowning in the juices, wings shimmering in the harsh sunlight. Jacket plucks one off the tree for himself._

_As he draws it down the husk falls away to expose the deep purple-black of its flesh, which splits easily under his thumbs. The flesh inside is a garish red and from it emerges a rooster's head, beak open wide to reveal a gleaming row of human teeth._

He wipes the now cold sweat off of his forehead and rolls over, slipping back into sleep.

_He dreams he's wading knee deep in the ocean watching idly as pale wavy eels wash past him with the tide. Wispy fog is trailing over the water's surface, parting around his hand as he reaches down to fish one out. It's longer than he realizes and oddly unresponsive, hanging limply in his hand as he continues to draw it out, unable to see where it begins or ends_

_It isn't until the pale shape comes into focus, floating up from the depths that he realizes. He drops the intestines coiled in his hand when the face surfaces into the open air and a familiar pair of green eyes rolls inhumanly to meet his._

He's up and moving before he's entirely aware of it, cringing at the gross feeling of his shirt rolling down his sticky torso and throwing on his varsity jacket out of habit despite how uncomfortable it feels.

The drive west is tense but hazy, fresh pavement disappearing under the wheels of his slick new DeLorean and disjointed bits of pop songs crackling through the speakers. It was the only luxury he allowed himself when he'd returned home, and he's thankful for it now, cranking the air conditioning as high as it will go and maintaining a steady 20 miles above the limit.

* * *

 

By the time he makes it to Beard's apartment complex he's so weary he doesn't even flinch as he pops over the curb turning into the parking lot.

The exhaustion hits him all at once when he knocks on Beard's door, and he leans against the wall next to the door as he waits, confusing Beard when he opens the door until he turns to see him.

“Oh! J-” Jacket kisses him then, unable to wait any longer, draping himself bonelessly over him, trusting that he'd keep both of them up. Beard is softer around the edges, his hair longer, but the strength hidden beneath is still there, Beard holding most of his weight with his hands on his shoulders and still able to kiss back.

He smells different, no more gun oil and fear sweat and secondhand smoke from him, now it's flowery detergent and coconut shampoo and clean skin. Jacket pulls back to take in the softness of his face, the familiar shapes made unfamiliar on a face not creased with worry.

“It's so good to see you, I wasn't expecting you at all, how have you been?” Beard starts, following him as he lets himself into the home uninvited and looks around. It looks lived in, dirty dishes stacked in the sink and clean laundry stacked folded on the kitchen table. It's comforting and unsettling at the same time to see Beard in such a domestic setting, far from the Conflict; he distracts himself by rummaging around in the hall closet, emerging with a beaten up duffle bag he recognizes.

“So, uh, what exactly is going on? I mean,” Beard starts, with the tone of a man used to not receiving responses to his questions. “I'm glad you're here but what, exactly...” He trails off as Jacket starts loading the bag with the clothes he's left out, attempting to keep them folded as neat as Beard had had them and failing miserably. Beard follows him to the bathroom, watching him collect his toiletries.

“Don't forget my shampoo,” he says, “it's in the shower.”

Jacket herds him back out, tapping his foot as he waits for Beard to grab a few personal effects from his bedroom, letting him pack them into the bag slung over his shoulder.

Beard catches his arm when Jacket stumbles on some uneven concrete on the way to the car and takes a moment of his own to examine his face. Seeing the dark circles under his eyes, and the hangdog look on his face he holds his hand out.

“Why don't you let me drive buddy,” he says, “It'll probably be safer...”

Jacket gives him the keys without thinking, sinking into the passenger seat in relief.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Jacket shrugs, all the energy running out of him now that he's gotten to Beard, lulled almost to sleep by his presence.

“Okay, well, I guess we'll go back to Miami? I mean I've got time off might as well have a little road trip anyways. Where did you stop on your way over here? We'll sleep there for the night.”

Jacket stares at him, uncomprehending.“You didn't stop at a hotel?” Beard asks, pulling out onto the street harder than strictly necessary.

Jacket makes a noncommittal gesture, thinking of the couple hours of stolen sleep he got pulled off to the side of the road in the middle of the day.

“We'll find someplace,” he says with a sigh “we always do. Remember you, me, Barnes, and Daniels took shelter in an old ice cream stand and Daniels wouldn't stop eating those stale old ice cream cones?”

He keeps his laugh quiet, letting Jacket get some much-needed rest.

* * *

 

They're standing outside a truck stop, staring at a map when Jacket notices Beard's eyes keep drifting to the rack of brochures beside it.

“Tourist traps, you heard of any of these?” Beard asks, grabbing a handful of the most colorful ones. “The Vampire Caves of Texas, Crop Circle Tours, Mr. Mystery's Marvelous Mystery Shack, World's Largest Ball Of Twine... those have all got to be scams... right? Well, maybe not the twine ball.”

Beard shoves them all into the plastic bag with their pops and snacks when they get back to the car, trading them for a handful of chips he shoves into his mouth. There's a couple of seconds of Beard chewing loudly and then, “There's probably not actually vampires in a cave system in Texas, huh.”

When the cool damp air of the cave hits Beard's face he sighs in relief, following the tour guide as she explains the difference between stalactites and stalagmites (they stick tight to the ceiling, just like the vampires when they're in bat form!)

He looks back to check Jacket is still following, and worms his way to the back of the group to stand next to him. A dry hand slips into his in the semi darkness, trigger finger tapping against his knuckles as they listen to the legend of “The Most Haunted Passageway In The South™”.

The tour ends in a wide cavern, half blocked off by a natural lake; as tourists trickle into the gift shop, Beard produces a beat-up Polaroid camera from his bag.

“I just thought, I haven't gotten a chance to see that picture from Hawaii, we might as well make some new memories.”

The flash goes off in their faces and they both blink, Beard chuckling at their faces glowing in the bright light.

“Hey, does that look like a pair of eyes in the background to you?” Jacket socks him in the shoulder as they walk off to see all the tacky swag they can buy.

The twine ball isn't all that big either, but they take a picture with it anyways.

* * *

 

Jacket sleeps restlessly in their cheap grungy hotel room, which is impressive considering that without Beard in his bed he wouldn't sleep at all. Instead, he lies on the line between awake and asleep, catching passing sensations from both. The only constant is Beard's nose on his chest, lips brushing his sternum, and the faint impression that something has already gone wrong.

They're having a late morning lounge fest still in bed when Beard sits up straight, nearly beaming Jacket in the head where he's resting in his lap with the remote in his haste to turn the volume up on the news. Jacket sits up too and pulls Beard close after a moment of unsure fumbling as he groans high and agonized over the newscaster reporting the bombing of San Francisco, only moments ago.

There's a strange moment of dissonance as he untangles his feelings, noting with a tired exhale that it had been relief that had threatened to send him to tears alongside Beard. As it is, he stays steady for him, running his fingers through his hair absently as the washed out colors from the old TV paints them in light and sharp shadow from behind the closed curtains of their room.

* * *

 

Beard is quiet for a while after that, not commenting on Jacket's erratic choices in direction and holding his hand tight over the console.

They stop at a roadside ice cream shop and Jacket watches closely as Beard considers his options.

“They all look really good,” he mumbles.

Jacket makes looks at the man behind the counter and jerks his thumb at Beard, nodding getting out his wallet as he begins to scoop. When Beard looks up, and up, and up at the tower of ice cream balanced precariously on the cone in Jacket's hand he grins, awestruck for just a moment.

“Holy shit, I'm not gonna be able to eat all of that,” he says unable to wipe the smile from his face “We haven't even eaten lunch yet. You're gonna have to help me.”

Jacket shoots him a look— _as if_ he wouldn't be digging in himself—but Beard is too busy getting the clerk to take a picture of them to notice.

* * *

 

“Damn it's cold this far north,” Beard says, teeth rattling, “I hope the northern lights are out soon.”

He does a little hop from foot to foot, staring up at the clear sky with the camera clutched in his hand; he's underdressed for the weather, but Jacket can't blame him for the way he went dashing outside thinking it was later than it was. With a quiet exhale he takes off his Letterman, holding it out for him.

“Thanks, man,” he throws it on and snuggles into it “No offense but you gotta wash this thing more often, I—” his hand emerges from the chest pocket holding a photograph, worn at the edges but so deeply familiar.

He holds it like it's a baby bird or a hand grenade with a crumpled expression that opens into something so raw and vulnerable it makes Jacket uneasy.

When Beard turns it on him he kisses him, so he can close his eyes instead.

* * *

 

He doesn't remember his dreams anymore, but if he did, this one would be one he'd dust off in times of solitude when he was in the mood to split open old wounds to lick them clean again.

_He dreams he's sitting at the head of a banquet table stretching out so far that he can hardly see the guest at the far end, the only other person sitting at the table. Despite the distance between them, the being's voice rings loud in his ears, echoing weirdly from the beak of a man wearing his clothes, idly gesturing with his hands._

_“So you've changed your ending. I'm not sure if you've changed history, that remains to be seen. But for now, we part ways... One last thing before you go—do you have a question for me? Everyone gets one—” the being turns cocks its head “Well, almost everyone.”_

_A pair of hands settle onto Jacket's shoulders, he doesn't have to glance up to know who it is._

_“What use is there for a soldier without a war?” Beard calls out._

_“Whatever it is,” Richard responds, “I hope you prove it's a good one.”_

_A car engine reverberating over the whistling of a bomb dropping; the sound of Jacket stealing Beard from the grasping claws of an unforeseen nuclear tragedy (unforeseen by anyone but Jacket that is), and then, silence._

Jacket rolls over, pulling Beard closer, and goes back to sleep.


End file.
